


Mahjarrat Maturity

by Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun



Category: Runescape
Genre: (a very little bit), (little shit's gotta learn or he'll grow up to be a big shit), Animal Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fighting, Gen, Moia POV, POV First Person, Quest: Children of Mah, Sixth Age, Zamorakians, fashionscape, little shit grows up a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun/pseuds/Zanik_of_the_Dorgeshuun
Summary: Khazard's been taught a lesson. Time to learn from it.Sequel toChildren of Chaos. Bonus bit of silliness tacked onto the end.





	Mahjarrat Maturity

**Author's Note:**

> Children of Chaos was my first full-blown RS fic (an entire few weeks ago wow), and while I still like it as it is, I feel like more needs to be done with the aftermath. So here's the aftermath.
> 
> (I may have yoinked [TheRedLady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedLady)'s headcanon about Moia hunting for food in Floor 61. go read her fics they're great)

Khazard had been encouraged to explore the floors of Daemonheim. With Zamorak now taking a more active role in his life, he would be here a lot in times to come.

The dungeons were a labyrinth, but in my years spent here, I had come to know most of the usual routes. The room where I found him was where I tended to go when I wished to distance myself, to spend time alone; it was far along the paths from Zamorak's central hub. Perhaps he had wanted to distance himself from his shame, or to go far enough that he would not be found. If so, he hadn't been successful.

Indignant in his loss, he was slashing away at a cowering bovimastyx. The poor thing had bleeding gashes running all along its hide, reddened all the more in the scarlet light. It was attempting to escape in slow, staggering steps, but getting nowhere. Though I hunted bovimastyx on a regular basis, I had never seen any in such pain: it had to stop. I darted in, drew my dagger and jammed it into its neck, right at the base of its skull. Brain stem severed. It fell to the floor.

I wiped my blade clean on its leathery body, and assessed the damage. Most of the skin was useless now, but the hide on the other side would likely be intact and good for working. The meat could be salvaged for meals... and thanks to Khazard, much of it was already in strips.

I straightened up and looked on my handiwork. "A quick, clean kill. Eventually."

"I didn't want a clean kill," Khazard grumbled.

"No, you simply wanted it to suffer." For all he liked to portray himself as a mysterious, inscrutable warlord, he really was quite easy to read. "There's no good done by causing mindless suffering when the victim can't do anything about it."

(My father had seen fit to "reward" me for failed tasks, even successful ones in which he perceived some fault. Mahjarrat did not scar, so my own scar tissue was used as yet more "proof" of my worthlessness. I had never been strong enough to repay the damage.)

Khazard whirled round from the poor beast, facing me with bloodied sword in hand. "What about our fight? Was that not 'mindless suffering' for _me?_ " He turned back and slashed at the corpse, right through a section of intact hide. Shame.

"Are you implying you couldn't do anything about it? That sounds like an admission of weakness."

He avoided eye contact.

"And if you thought it was needless, you're sorely missing the point. Zamorak wanted us to fight so that we could learn. Conflict makes each of us stronger." I stepped around the corpse to face him once more and glared into his insolent eyes. "Strength through chaos. We are not weaklings. We cannot be. We are Zamorakians."

"I am not a weakling!" he snarled, nostrils flared.

I recognised Khazard's brutality. I had seen it in my father Lucien, blasting me against the wall and leaving bruises for months; in my cousin Zemouregal, kicking the Mahjarrat sacrifice as he lay pleading on the ground; I had seen it in Khazard himself, laughing himself hoarse while watching his fight slaves die.

The difference was that Khazard was _young._ My father and my cousin had always had far more power than was good for them -- no one could humble them or tell them "no". Had Khazard stayed at the top of his army, perhaps he would have remained that way, time carving his cruelty into him like spikes atop a wall of stone. But with Zamorak, Bilrach, and myself, the hierarchy was reversed. He would adapt, because he would have to.

"You're a weakling among us, Khazard. But you can be more. Asserting yourself as stronger than a harmless beast will do you no good. Show that you can hold your own among Zamorak's strongest allies."

I unsheathed my dagger; such a close-range weapon would put me at a disadvantage, evening up the fight a little. I was interested to see how he would fare this time.

"We fight as equals."

"No." Petulant child. Almost pouting.

I gripped the dagger firm. "We fight as equals, Khazard."

He readied his sword.

* * *

We sparred for a good while, sword and dagger glinting red in the dungeon's light.

I had noticed during our last fight that, in reaction to my teleportation, he'd begun to attempt predicting my next position. Of course, he still lagged behind me, but even thinking half a step ahead was an improvement from two steps behind.

He landed a few hits -- none would have struck flesh, but one did make contact near the edge of my armour. Much further and that could have done a battle-ending injury.

"You're making progress!" I exclaimed.

He snapped back at me: "Of course I am!" Regardless, it set him off-guard for a moment, and of course I took advantage -- it was easy from there to trip him up and send him clattering to the floor. He lay there, disgusted at himself as I held him at daggerpoint.

Sheathing my weapon, I told him: "Well fought." I offered to help him stand; to my surprise, he accepted, and took my hand to get to his feet. He refused to look at me afterwards, but still, progress. He was learning. Perhaps respect would come in time.

**Author's Note:**

> Respecting him was still a long way off for me. This largely stemmed from something else in which he clearly needed improvement: military strength was one thing, but even the most powerful Zamorakian would find it hard to make a mark without a strong sense of style.
> 
> "Khazard," I called to him; he still refused to look. "Your outfit looks worse than the dead bovimastyx." _Now_ he looked.
> 
> "What did you just say?" He was holding out his sword again -- did he want a Round 3?
> 
> "Your armour is tacky, not to mention filthy. From what I can see, you've gone for a solid black on the underclothes: a safe choice, but _boring._ Zamorakians don't do safe. We dress to kill."
> 
> Round 3 was fought in front of my full-length mirror. We waged war over whether sparkling eyeshadow was necessary to bring out the gold in his eyes. I won, making my victory a hat-trick. Khazard was the true winner, though: not even he could deny that his eyeliner had turned out _flawless._
> 
> * * *
> 
> Now that's out of my system: actual notes.
> 
> I'm probably _not_ making this an actual series (I say, when three months later there'll most likely be ten damn fics coming after it). Just serves to offer a li'l more resolution. Hoping this served that purpose well enough.


End file.
